


Like Poison Drizzled On Whiskey

by puppydeanandjen



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Character Study, Dean Winchester Bears the Mark of Cain, Hurt Dean Winchester, M/M, Season/Series 10, Witchcraft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-08
Updated: 2018-08-08
Packaged: 2019-06-23 17:53:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15611748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/puppydeanandjen/pseuds/puppydeanandjen
Summary: Prompt: Cursed to Constant Itching





	Like Poison Drizzled On Whiskey

**Author's Note:**

> So I feel bad for not posting in a while and only posting a J2 thing when I do, so I thought I put up my Wincest Writing Challenge here, even though, I didn't like it in the end. Heh, failure of a new writing style. I hope you guys enjoy! <3

Nails scratch against the blackboard of Dean’s mind, but they’re feathery like a kitten pawing at her owner for attention; it itches, at most, yet never enough to cause any pain. He simply brushes it off as his imagination because with the Mark of Cain adoring his arm, he’s certainly been on edge. So Dean drowns himself in the hunts. In the bloodshed that the Mark yearns for.

 

That’s how it was like at first.

 

Only a few days later, it escalates to sharpened claws digging into the flesh that holds her there. No longer seeking for the comforting rubs to head that she desired, but searching for a way to escape this hell hole.

 

It hurts and prickles and Dean’s fingers can’t help but scrape at the same spot-fingernails threading themselves in the scruff of his head-as if he were begging for her removal.

 

“You alright?”

 

There’s pressure against the small of his back and Dean swears that he can feel calluses through the layers of flannel. Tension unravels itself like a dark, red rose blossoming when given the proper sunlight and water. He doesn’t look nor speak since he already knows who it is and the words won’t come out anyways; instead, he promptly leans into the touch, shutting his eyes as he inhales the faint scent of blood and vanilla.

 

The waves of serenity and warmth and freedom overwhelm him and there’s nothing that he wants more than now.

 

\---

 

A curse-that’s what they decided on-from the male witch they met a week ago who enjoyed watching his victims gradually suffer.  

 

Sam’s face is all twisted as the smooth skin wrinkles-irises green when they stare at the text lying upon each other and amber when they finally gaze at Dean. Relief that travels through Dean as he observes the changes in the contortions and absorbing them till the sockets bleed because that brings some sort of tranquility and stability to him, plastering already shattered porcelain together in an attempt to resemble a person. A calm that he hasn’t experienced for what seems to be a decade without the drastic increase of scars and wrinkles; it’s strange in a way, yet not unnerving, just tingly. All he wants to do is melt into that feeling and float in this eternal paradox forever.

 

But Sam winces in pain and Dean’s ease switches to worry, scared that he must have infected Sam too in some way-he just knows it; so worried that he doesn’t realize the reason is his hands, bruisingly clenched around the stiff, taut length of Sam’s arm. Fingers spring open, wood scrapes the floors when he stands and feet back away slowly; the sensation of them disconnecting alarms the kitten to return for the care that she desires.

 

Then he’s being pulled back in by eyes belonging to the child that survived only on the love from his brother, pleading for Dean to stay. To not be afraid.

 

And how could he say no?

 

His heart aches for Sammy’s intoxicating touch on his skin, yet his brain denies everything as it whispers of the power coursing through his veins. Whispers of retribution in shades of black and white and no in between. Whispers of leaving the ones he loves behind because he _needs_ to walk on this path alone.

 

It’s exactly what he’s supposed to do and he can’t do it. Not with the fuzzy, tender sensation trailing across his cheek, passing over the curves of his ear to wrap around the nape as the fingertips knead the pliable skin, already familiar with them. They’re reinforcing the dents that begun to take form since the very beginning when the baby was shoved into Dean’s trembling arms as he’s told to run the fuck away from everything that he knew to be home.

 

The dents on his bony fragile shoulder from the heavy skull as it bounced to the beat of tires rolling over pebbles. His stomach where a fist lodged itself into, sending him tumbling to the ground in pain, but he couldn’t be prouder. His knees which collided with the pair across because the bitch doesn’t understand how those twigs work under this confined tablespace.

 

Those scattered old cracks become holes with each stroke in the armor that comes in the form of a scorched blemish on his right arm used to protect against the enemies which lie inside him.  

 

He’s not invincible. He never was, but now it’s appallingly so.    

 

The kitten purrs.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Feedback gives me fuel, so please leave some and fill my tank (In a non-kinky way)! I hope you guys enjoy what I write in the future!


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